


He and I

by spacego



Series: Speaking of Love in Songs and Verse [4]
Category: Alexander (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8160068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacego/pseuds/spacego
Summary: Alexander ignores closed doors and private spaces in his quest to regain what's lost.Afterall, can you still be a stalker if you own the whole palace?





	1. Only You & Only Me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the desk scene toward the end of Jean-Marc Vallée's _The Young Victoria_ ([film synopsis](http://www.victorianweb.org/history/victoria/youngvictoria/yv2.html), spoiler alert)

He had promised, hadn't he? Never to take out his anger on his beloved in such a public manner, ever again. It was a promise he had made in India, the one that had paved Craterus's way back to Macedon even before the idea could find form in his head.

A different place. A different general. Same results. You hurt the one you love most, he thought. He found little comfort in that thought. Unfortunately, this time, he could not send Eumenes to Macedon.

It'd been days, nigh on a fortnight if he were honest, since they began intentionally avoiding each other again. Unintentionally? Months, if he were honest. Long before all this mess. Eumenes was just the straw breaking the camel's back.

So, it's that kind of night, is it? He wondered to himself. A night for honesty?

He doubted he had the courage to be thusly honest. He was never the brave one of the pair.

The other half of the pair, his most beloved, slept on. Oblivious to his inner turmoil. In the middle of the bed, on his back, as though he had fallen asleep examining the ceiling. Persian architects of the long forgotten past had wrought a wondrous ceiling for this room. And his beloved had chosen the room almost only because of it.

That it lay right across his own room was merely his good fortune.

Like his good fortune that his lover had chosen to stay with him still, to follow him to the ends of the world and back again. Still, even now.

One beloved palm peeked out from the folds of warm fur blanket, facing up, like an invitation.

He touched the center of the palm gently, watched fingers flexing lightly, calloused skin warm and clammy at the same time, before settling again.

 _I'm a pervert_ , he thought mirthlessly, as he studied the face he loved so much and knew so well, in this strange light of neither night nor dawn.

In his sleep, his beloved could not offer consolation to his fears. Sleeping so still, he could not argue with him, talk to him. He wished to hear that voice, see those eyes. He missed that disapproving downturn of those lips and the waggle of those eyebrows.

In this moment of beholding, he felt so terribly alone.

 _Whose fault is that_ , he asked himself.

It was he who placed leagues between them, lovers between them, duty between them. Took away everything that bound them together, leaving only the scantest bit of thread to sustain his beloved only barely.

He pressed more insistently on the center of his beloved's palm, against the line that spoke of life. He fancied he could feel life's blood coursing through under skin.

He felt rather than saw the waking of a man who, for so long, had been the better half of his soul. Knew how those eyes would blink rapidly to chase sleep and dreams away.

Tonight might feel like a dream, moreso for the interrupted sleeper in front of him.

"Wh... Alexander?" Nary a whisper and scratchy besides.

He wanted to speak, to give a glib remark at least. But his voice had deserted him, along with his courage.

The sound of crisply shifting bed clothes was like an invitation, and he sat down on the edge of the bed before he could stop himself.

"Alexander, what's wrong? Are you..."

Did something have to go wrong, for him to visit?

Something did go wrong, though. And he didn't know how to right it.

"Alexander, if you don't tell me, I can't help you. Or would you have me guess?"

"Nothing," he said. Because he had come to ask forgiveness; but in this, he would be a coward. "Just because," he said, only because he felt he had to say something Words were useless anyway. He shifted so he could place himself fully on the bed.

"Because what?"

He shouldn't have said anything. "Just because," he said again. _Please don't ask_.

His answer was greeted with a long-suffering sigh.

He ignored it, in favor of plumping a pillow. Then he laid his head on it, letting the scent of his lover welcome him. It was like coming home, he thought. It felt so undeserved somehow.

He closed his eyes, and indulged himself in the scent and the warmth of something he had forgotten. He had strayed too far from home, he supposed. Like a belligerent child, so sure of himself. Even when he had lost his way.

It saddened him, this sense of wasted time, it came to him with the kind of physical pain that clutched at his heart.

The air between them was still. Time passed quietly by. He was almost asleep, content to know that those eyes would be upon him, scrutinizing him like he's some dream-woven boon. Would it be in him the courage to reassure his lover that he was not a sleep-rivened dream.

Yet, this night, even with the reprieve of darkness, he found none of that courage.

Blankets were pulled around him and his silence.

"Fine," his lover told. Kind insistent hands pushed a stray lock out of his face. "We'll talk tomorrow." Come hell or high water.

The bed, while big, was scarcely large enough for both of them. Never had a gulf been so vast, across a space so small. Not since that time, at least.

Over the scant remains of the night, they lay side by side, only the outer tips of their toes ever touched in the space between. And they remained thusly, until he woke up again in the morning.

 

* * *

 

The minuscule touch that had kept him anchored across the short span between sleep and wakefulness had vanished completely with the sun.

Early morning sun greeted him like a grudging friend, warm light falling across his face. Too early, he grumbled to himself. The bed, he realized, was angled to catch the sun as early as possible.

It was quiet, for all the world he was the only occupant.

It's easy to listen to the palace waking up. The measured steps of servants, the respectful whispered codes of guards handing over duties. Wildlife outside the window.

Hurried footsteps coming nearer to the room.

Doors being flung open with such a force that it sent a gust of cold air from the corridor into the room.

He shifted his position a little, so he could catch more sun. Burrowed fully into the blankets to preserve warmth. Maybe if he pretended to sleep, he wouldn't have to have that talk that had been so ominously promised.

The person was standing by the bed now. Alexander entertained wicked thoughts.

A hand jostled his blanket-covered shoulder. "Hepha... oh.. Alexander?"

 _Oh bother!_ Not the person he had expected. "Yes, Ptolemy?"

He threw back the covers and sat up awkwardly against some pillows. They exchanged stilted pleasantries, eyeing each other as though they've never seen each other in such a way before.

A scant minute later, though it felt like an Age, salvation came. His beloved general emerged from the side door that led to his small private study.

Hephaistion was dressed the same as Ptolemy, he noted, for a morning ride. Only that his beloved looked so much better in his getup. That beloved face was angled downward, gaze fixed on a thin sheaf of parchment in one hand. The other held a half eaten apple, white flesh already turning a bit brown, glistening with apple juice and saliva.

He was so busy appraising his lover that he almost missed Ptolemy's hurried "come along, everyone's waiting", and Hephaistion's soft startled greetings to both of them.

He felt Hephaistion trying to engage him, searching for his gaze, hoping he would say something. He averted his eyes and looked to the ground instead. Unsure why he did it, he watched parchment fluttering lazily down.

Eyes fixed on the slowly lolling of apple, he caught snatches of conversation echoing off thick palace walls.

"He was with you all night?" a suspicious Ptolemy could be heard.

"Not all night, no."

"He's oddly dressed for bed."

He could not hear Hephaistion's riposte, despite his efforts. His two generals must've turned a corner.

Looking down, he realized he was still wearing his formal robes, suddenly realizing just how heavy and restrictive it was. There had been satraps to entertain last night, like always. festivities had stretched to the small hours, like always; Hephaistion had begged off early.

He tugged at a loose thread on the front of his robes. A flower petal unraveled.

* * *

 

He took his breakfast in his formal study, would've taken a bath there too, if he could. There's just not enough time in the world to slog through all the issues of a burgeoning empire.

And he was thinking of expanding even more? The mountain of documents would fall on him and kill him, if bureaucracy didn't get to him first.

Every few days or so he would think of this exact thing. But every time too, his wanderlust won his mind over.

For today, however, and for the next hour or so, he chewed food, signed edicts, wrote out orders, read incomprehensible letters. He almost didn't speak the entire time. Other than to call his pages to his side and tell them, "Put this on Hephaistion's desk."

The sun still had some ways to go before full noon, yet the King's pages had nigh worn down a path between the King's office and his Chiliarch's, ferrying scrolls, notes, and sundry objects.

He knew that breakfast service must be over when a stream of people looking for favors began lining up outside his door.

It was one of those days with no formal audience scheduled. Pity that, because he liked formal audiences, if only for the dressing up and sitting on a pretty throne, receiving the adoration of his beloved people.

But he enjoyed receiving people in his office too. Here, he could dispense with niceties and benevolence. He could be impolitic and brusque, with "No" as his go-to mantra, and an ugly scowl as his go-to expression.

There were less petitioners on non-formal days, as only those with proper clearance could even get close to this part of the administrative building, let alone into his workspace.

But there were more people to see than usual, especially since everybody caught wind of that thing with Eumenes. Now everyone thought Hephaistion had fallen into disfavor once again. What farce!

His mood blackened within the span of one breath. He threw everyone out of his room and everything off the table. Parchment, inks, weights and trinkets fell with a satisfyingly loud sound onto the floor.

He strode to the door, wrenched it open and slammed it behind him. People running in all directions of the corridor, away from him. The scene reminded him of Gaugamela, of Darius's center parting, then breaking. It was unexpectedly gratifying, he remarked to himself, this conquering feeling.

Now, he turned the corner, strode purposefully to the one place he had yet to conquer and the only one who had managed to conquer him.

 

*********

 

There's no line of supplicants littering the corridor in front of the Chiliarch's workroom. Only two soldiers he had signed to be quiet; they looked at him incredulously. But they would keep quiet and never tell another soul that their King was a shameless eavesdropper (if only to save their own necks).

The door was heavy enough to prevent most of the sound from leaking out. If it were solid, it would hide everything, but thankfully the exquisite latticework allowed some nosiness to be exercised. He put a little bit of pressure on the door, felt glad that it yielded to him quietly. The gap was enough for him to listen in, if he pressed the side of his head close enough to it.

"He would say the same thing as I did." His lover's voice held no inflection. Only perhaps a hint of a desire for this conversation to be over.

"Then I shall petition to him and hear it from his own mouth." He did not recognize the second speaker's, who sounded like a Greek. He scowled.

The two of them exchanged a few more words. He found that he's beginning to dislike this other person already, who sounded so condescending that it grated his nerves. He turned his head a little, so he could spy through the gap.

The unknown man was pacing back and forth in front of Hephaistion's desk, muttering and swearing. The overworked general, on the other hand, was scribbling something one time, sifting through a pile of thing another time, for all the world ignoring the man in front of him.

"In that case, you should hasten to the King forthwith and cease to take up my time here," Hephaistion said without looking up from his writing.

"Don't mind if I do!" the odious man stomped toward the door without as much as a by-your-leave.

The door was yanked open.

Apparently luck was on the man's side as he halted his steps quick enough lest he charged straight at his King.

The man, that had seemed like a puffed up peacock before, stood within the door frame looking much like a landed fish.

 

*********

 

So there they were, inside the Chiliarch's workroom, enacting almost the same tableau but now with the King ensconced inside of it, rather than spying from the outside.

"Well? Let me hear it, your petition."

He gave the man an encouraging smile, and watched the high-strung man relax. He heard the introductions with half an ear--a new commander of some newly established garrison--, vaguely deciphered his request for more something. He tuned the man out, head angled to watch life go by outside the window. He was good at this, at appearing to be attentive, to be charming and interested.

The view outside the room was nothing to write about. Not when the view inside of it was so wondrous, if he were to say so himself. Turning his head a little, he decided to indulge his eyes on said vision.

His beloved general looked nonplussed and unbothered as he went about his work methodically. But Alexander knew him better than anyone else, could see how the general was fraying at the edges. Thin-lipped, creased brows, and a sense of resignation lurking beneath the surface.

On the other hand, his petitioner seemed to have become more emboldened, but his passionate speech was winding down to an end.

"I hear you, Commander," he said, once the speech ended. He mustered his Kingly voice, and smiled because he had amused himself. "Has General Hephaistion given you a solution?"

"Yes, but..."

"What did he tell you?"

"Well, that..."

"I don't need to hear it," he said with a wave. "I can already imagine what our good general here told you."

He watched the commander trying and failing to hide a look of glee; it sparked an ire in him somehow. He noted Hephaistion's unruffled demeanor, but noticed the white-knuckled grip on his stylus.

"General Hephaistion's decision stands," he said, rather impressed at how fast said general whipped his head around to meet his eyes. The act would've been so amusing, if not for the look of confused, wide-eyed disbelief crossing that pale face.

He tried to smile and provide reassurance, also a promise that they would indeed sit down and have a talk. He wondered if his silent message was received as it was intended. They used to be able to communicate with a fleeting touch, or a look, and a simple smile. Ptolemy used to tease them for it, for the way they seemed to have a lifetime's worth of conversation in the space of a single gaze. He wondered if it was still true today.

It saddened him, more than he thought possible. But there's still another matter to conclude.

The garrison commander who stood in front of them was not so young as not to know when defeat was imminent, and must've noticed the souring of his King's temper. And to the man's credit, he didn't have to be told twice. It was amusing to see his grudging bow, aimed more at the far wall than to the other two occupants in the room, before leaving. This time, the door was spared from the man's umbrage; it opened and closed with nary a sound.

 

*********

 

He was enjoying this, sitting across of Hephaistion, in the chair reserved for guests, upending the organized chaos of the desk. Picking up one random parchment or another. Reading boring things written there, and discarding them without care where they land.

He tried to hide his smirk every time Hephaistion all but snatched parchment after parchment almost from mid-air, to put them on their proper pile.

He only stopped when his stomach growled to remind him that it was lunchtime. He glared down.

"Despite all the Spartan training of your youth, Alexander," came the gentle teasing from across the table, "I can always depend on your stomach to tell when it's time for a meal."

They exchanged glances across the table, and sniggered like they were just little boys. Every time they stopped for a deep cleansing breath, and looked at each other, another memory from the distant past would conjure itself between them.

They would laugh, long and free-sounding, let memories of the past sooth recent hurts between them, the unseen wounds of wearied warriors. Pure and lofty dreams of their youths had sundered them, and it would be the remembrance of that youth that would bring them back together.

Trusting in the memory of their youth, they escaped the walls of the palace, raided the kitchens, evaded the guards, saddled up, and rode out to seek out a spot they would claim to be theirs alone.

* * *

 

They had found a little hiding place. It was not much, he readily admitted to himself, but enough for their needs. A copse of sorts and nothing to write about. It was neither very beautiful, nor was it very bad. It suited who they were now. They were not as together as they had been when they were children who were unwise to the ways of the world and the heart. But neither were they as sundered as they had once been as well.

Within the shade of the small copse, small but comfortable, unseemly yet a good fit, they had eaten, talked, and observed the skies. Lots of "do you remember" and laughing at youthful follies.

They hadn't done a lot more than touching and kissing, and even then the one thing he enjoyed the most was when they lay side by side, one right hand clasped around another's left hand, watching the sky turn and the world go by.

As with any dream, one had to wake at some point. They're fortunate, he thought, as they bundled everything up and onto their horses, to have the opportunity to remember again how it felt when they first succumbed to the first blooms of love.

The bloom which had taken root in the deepest of his hearts, and which had blossomed in his mind, had been astonishingly beautiful and headily fragrant. Over the years, it had wilted a bit, he readily admitted. And if he were honest, the scent of it had also faded to a mere whisper, even as its roots dug deeper into his soul.

The bloom was now really a twisting yarn of vine that held his heart together. Held it so completely that the vine had taken the shape of his heart. Pulsing and shuddering for him at times. He wondered, sometimes, whether the vine could even be mistaken to be his own heart. If the vines were to let go, he thought, his heart would crumble completely. With nothing to hold his heart up, it would fall away or disappear completely.

The palace was within sight now, more than a mere speck in his mind. He watched his companion ride in front of him, despite his being the swifter horse. His lover had always been the better rider, however. At least he thought so.

 

*********

 

Half a lifetime ago, Aristotle had pulled him aside after class and told him that he had too much energy to properly concentrate in class. Half the time, his eyes had been on the grassy plains beyond, his mind supplying him with all the running. He had jiggled his legs, though he had folded them underneath him. Then he had missed Aristotle's questions.

"Why don't you go for a run at dawn?" Aristotle had suggested. Burn those excess energy, and become more settled in class.

He had easily heeded Aristotle's suggestions, and found a goodly terrain for him to do so, grass under his feet, open skies above, and he could pretend that the sun rose to greet him at the end of his run. It had been freeing, and then it got dull.

Running made his body tired but his mind remained overactive. The mindless activity of putting one leg in front of the other, again, and again, and again, and again, made his mind conjure up thoughts that became more unsettling with every run. His mother had told him about it, about the mania that lay beneath the surface of his soul. He had fantastic imagination. Some great, some terrifying. He needed a friend, he then decided. To run with him, to keep him company, to keep him anchored, to keep his fears at bay. 

Never an early riser, Hephaistion had joined him the next day under much protest. It had been both comical and alarming to see Hephaistion literally falling asleep on his feet, like a narcoleptic goat.

The next day, he woke up to see his friend's bed already empty. He had snorted then. It would be like Hephaistion to go hide somewhere so he didn't have to accompany Alexander on his run again, wouldn't it?

He had quickly learned his lesson, though, to not think unworthy thoughts about his friend. Because just over halfway through his run, he had heard his name called, above the sound of the wind and the gallop of a horse.

The morning after, he woke up, found his friend's bed empty, and headed to the stables. There, he found his friend tacking the most even-tempered horse there, yawning every so often, and nodding off once in a while against the horse's mane.

The next day, the day after, and every day since, he would run, with his friend by his side, on a docile horse. He would sometimes steal a glance, and sometimes he would see his friend falling asleep on the saddle, nodding off due to the even lull of hoof-beats, and jerking up awake just before he could fall off the horse.

 

*********

 

Many years had gone by since then. He no longer ran, but took to riding a horse in the morning instead. His friend continued to sleep on a horse, but nowadays he rarely had to worry about falling off it.

When did they last ride together at dawn, he wanted to ask. He nudged his horse to catch up with his friend, who turned to him with an indulgent smile.

He opened his mouth to ask, but was cruelly drowned out by the approaching sound of thundering hoof-beats. He saw his generals riding hard toward him, a goodly number of guards behind them, and the palace looming behind all of them.

They were herded like unruly children, his generals taking turns letting their unhappiness known. Hephaistion, meanwhile, had fallen behind, riding along with the lower ranks, plying his charms to placate upset guards and soldiers.

He did not make promises that such a thing would not happen again; just because no one could predict the future.

He did promise to act more grownup, like a king. He's no longer a child, not even a prince. His generals scolded him and he agreed that there's no use to want things to be like what it had been.

It saddened him, this reality. Not because of he had a carefree and innocent childhood, which would be a lie. He certainly did not miss being pushed and pulled by his parents. He only regretted how much he had lost when it came to Hephaistion.

A chorus of laughter rose up somewhere behind him; Hephaistion did a better job soothing high strung nerves. Another laughter, his friend's voice rising above the rest, and the last thread of tension faded away.

Palace walls rose up. Gates opened up to receive him and to throw reality in his face. Of how not a child he was anymore.

He craned his neck around, and caught a glimpse of his lover framed against the setting sun. Older, wiser, and infinitely more beautiful.

They could never reclaim their childhood, he realized, as much an impossibility as atoning for everything he had squandered in his thirsty quest to prove himself Great King. Yet, they had been given reprieve this day, he thought. It's more than what he deserved.

A little reminder of those halcyon days. And a little hope.

Tomorrow, he suddenly decided, surprising himself with this impulsive resolve, he would ride again at dawn.

His oblivious lover smiled at him and he returned it as widely as he could.

_When did we last ride together at dawn?_

_It's been too long._

 

 

 


	2. Swansong

There were some downsides to having a king as your lover, he thought to himself. Especially a king with no respect for closed doors, and the one who paid for the guards standing outside said doors.

The doors could be barred from the inside, but he saw no point of doing it. The same king might decide to not let him keep those doors come morning. And then, where would he be?

He feigned sleep when he heard his door being flung open none to gently. Hurried footsteps crossed the small distance between the doors and the bed. Soon, someone would be climbing into bed.

Which didn't happen.

He waited and waited and waited.

Finally, he gave up any pretense of sleep and peeked. He saw his king grinning down at him. The divine bastard knew he wasn't asleep.

"What's wrong?" he asked, letting a small annoyance tinge his words.

"Nothing," came the reply, bright and full of smiles. Hands were upon him now, manhandled him under the blankets, arranged him this way and that way on the bed until the king made satisfied noises. The bed dipped and undulated as both of them jostled for position.

Tucked under his chin, wicked tongue lapping the hollow of his collarbone, his beloved was warm and so alive.

He ran his fingers on stray golden curls, and wound a few strands around his middle finger.

He felt, rather than heard the question, so lost in his own thoughts.

"Say again?" he asked, a mere whisper against one wondrously warm temple. How he loved this man, he thought.

"Go riding in the morning?" Alexander asked, lifting his head slightly so they could look at each other.

"I..." he didn't know why he hesitated, and a little annoyed that he did. "Sure," he said at last. As if there could be any other answer, he scoffed.

It must've been a satisfactory answer, he thought even as he let Alexander entwining their fingers together under the sheets. He found that he didn't care if a stray golden hair or two got into his eyes, or tickled his nose.

There's not much night left, he mused. But for the time that was left, he was sure that his dream would be a good one.

 

***********

 

When he woke up, it felt like they had danced to an odd tune. He's no longer on his side of the bed, and everything seemed topsy-turvy from where he's lying.

Alexander's heartbeat was a bit strong underneath his ears. One hand curled around his neck and finger grazing his collarbone. Another arm around his waist, fingers light against the dip of his back. Legs entwined, and dangling off the side of the bed.

But when he shifted to sit up, he was let go immediately, albeit a little grudgingly.

One of the windows had a broken pane, he realized. And he could see the sky was still dark. Though not for long.

His eyeballs stung and throbbed, his eyelids drooped. He yawned once, and then a second longer one. He's never a morning person, not really. Never saw the virtue of it even on battlefields. Alexander was such a bad influence on him.

But he's awake now and they had a riding date.

If only his date would wake up, he thought, placing a small touch against the sleeping man's brows.

Maybe he'll rest his eyes for a bit. There's no need to be up and about in the dark.

 

***********

 

The next time he woke up, there's a little light on the horizon, with a bit of it finding its way in through his broken window. Hazily, he realized he was alone in bed, though he smelled his lover everywhere around him.

There's someone standing by his bed, so he did the best he could and blinked up at that person. His greeting was swallowed up in a yawn.

"Wake up, everyone's waiting," Perdiccas told him, yanking his blanket away.

Perdiccas was looking at him oddly. "What?" he asked, rubbing his sleep out of his eyes, rolling out of bed with little grace.

"Isn't that Alexander's robe?"

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he looked down at the brightly colored robe wrapped around his body. He sighed. Yet another downside of having a king for a lover, especially one who liked to dress him up.

"He was with you all night?" the tone of voice was suspicious, but there's also the underlying threat of gossip.

"Not all night, no." It wasn't him who answered. Oh speaking of the devil.

Alexander came up behind Perdiccas, dressed for a ride. Both of them were looking down at him, so he looked away with a grumble.

Perverts the both of them, he thought, as he stomped around his room with the weight of their gazes on his back, as they watched him shed the robe and change into his riding clothes.

"No, keep it," Alexander told him when he tried to return the annoying piece of clothing back. "Looks better on you, anyway."

Perdiccas nodded absently and it was all he could do not to fling the offending garment into the nearest fire.

It was warm and soft and beautiful. It smelled like Alexander and love and sunshine and all things that drove him maudlin. Against his better judgment, he folded it into a neat square and laid it on the bed.

 

*************

 

The ride was a disaster, though perhaps he's the only one who thought so. He was sleepy and cranky and he kept sliding off his horse. He listened to Perdiccas telling everyone about what had happened, or to be completely honest, what had not happened. Perdiccas was so loud that even dying hamadryads back in Macedon would've heard every sordid detail.

The way Perdicass told the story, it sounded like the king and his chiliarch had been rutting like hormonal youths.

He's only sad that they hadn't.

Sneaking a brazen peek at Alexander, he found that his lover looked like he was regretting it, too. He's only sad that their eyes didn't meet.

* * *

 

He skipped breakfast and decided against washing, so he was sleepy, hungry, and smelled of horse. Maybe his foul mood would be enough to deter annoying people from pestering him for one thing or another.

This was definitely a downside of not being on a battlefield, where the only problems were who to kill (the enemy, of course) and when to kill them (as soon as possible, obviously, and before they get anywhere near the King).

The first few people who swung by his workroom were the King's pages, ferrying paperwork that the King was too important or too lazy to do. Mostly the latter.

No battlefields, however, meant no more writing regretful letters to jaded families. What good could some words, some gold, and some horses do to families who lost children, husbands, and sons?

He wrote the last of them a few weeks ago. He hoped it would be a while before he had to write another one. Hopefully never again.

Another page approached his desk, this time one of his own staff, along with one of the city's agricultural staff. A burly Persian man with stern eyes and a good grasp of farming, but not of financing or accounting. He braced himself for another prolonged debate, because they've been at it for a solid week now. It's like trying to explain husbandry to a hole in the ground. Not for the first time wished he could grow gold off trees.

 

***********

 

Three petitioners later and he was ready to throw money at problems. Only that he couldn't, because none of the money was his.

At that very moment, he's stalled, trapped in a stalemate with a worthy-ish foe, at least until a suitable interpreter could be found for him. He's not a slouch with foreign languages. Over the years his diplomacy skills had improved. But there's not much else he could say now, with his limited polite vocabulary, that wouldn't offend his lover's father-in-law.

 _Ain't it funny_ , he thought eyeing the man sitting straightbacked and polite across him, Oxyartes actually sent an envoy to plead directly to him, instead of asking the Queen for intercession. He idly wondered what Roxana would think. That even her own father would rather grovel to her rival for Alexander's favor.

He imagined she might retaliate by chaining the King to her bed for the rest of his natural life.

There were several ways to say "no", and he'd exhausted all of them about half an hour ago. He sighed, but a yawn came out. He quickly apologized to the man who was already looking quite scandalized.

They waited some more. Him trying to look busy. The man across him trying to look unbothered.

His workroom door opened and he breathed a sigh of relief. But, his relief was premature (much like a lot of things in his life as of late, loathe though he was to admit).

The person striding purposefully toward him was not his interpreter, but rather the king himself. All clean and regal, imperious and widely smiling. And exuding much pheromones, he thought.

He refused to wilt under the king's intense gaze, and wondered if the king did not see the other occupant in the room. An imperious flick of that kingly hand proved to him that the king indeed saw, but couldn't care less.

To his relief, the envoy left without any protest, although he did look a bit disgruntled. The door closed with a sound that's only barely polite. At least it meant the door was well and truly shut, because he would rather not have half the palace see the king climbing onto the Grand Vizier's lap.

He found his tongue several kisses later. And then his ability for speech returned after a few kisses more.

"I don't think you understand what proskynesis meant," he chided his king and lover. He wanted to say more, but his breath was stolen from him.

"It's a secret move reserved for the king and his best beloved," came the reply, warm and moist.

He groaned when eager lips latched onto the side of his neck, squirmed when his skin was nibbled and hummed at. He tried to tell himself that Alexander's use of word _best_  instead of _only_  shouldn't bother him at all. He shouldn't be too greedy. He refocused his attention to the feeling of tongue lapping against his skin. No need to be greedier than he already was, he decided.

"You smell of horse, darling," came a sudden displeased assessment, although the complainant made no attempt to move away.

"So I do," he replied, drawing circles on an enticing inner thigh. "What are you going to do about it?" he asked, smiling against one fragrant shoulder when he felt strong muscles twitching beneath his fingers.

"There's this merchant at today's audience--where were you, by the way, don't answer, I know--anyway, this merchant gave me a lot of things. Including a gold free-standing bath! Gold everything, with four clawed feet, and who knows what else, we'll have to give it a thorough once over. Yes we. You and I, we. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, it's so big it was carried in by six giants--Of course not real giants. I don't know from where. I don't ask these things, ask Ptolemy--What other things what? From the merchant? I can't remember. A lot of things. I don't know. I saw the tub and came straight here--Well no not immediately! I thanked the man properly I'll have you know--I'll also thank you for not scolding me like you're my moth.... _Ooooh_ , do that _again_."

"So this tub of yours, is...." He should be reprimanding his king for abandoning the formal audience. But as a lover, he found he didn't much care about it.

"Want to try it out?" Was the giddy invitation.

"Now? It's barely noon."

"We'll use those oils that you like."

He eyed his desk, whose surface he could no longer see, buried under things like work and duty and responsibilities. If he were to leave now, the pile of things would only grow wider and taller. But his beloved king was nibbling on his earlobe and whispering long and detailed plans for that gold tub thing.

Who was he anyway to gainsay those divine wishes. He's but a lowly vizier, an he did smell of horse. "How positively sybaritic of you," he said as he was pulled up to his feet and into another soul-rending kiss.

 

***********

 

The tub was enormous and beautiful in an ostentatious way. Eight giants must've carried it, he thought. And mules the size of houses must've carted it. Surely Alexander did not mean to lug this monstrosity to Arabia?

On the other hand, if he could convince Alexander to have it melted down and minted... 

"You're not touching my tub unless it's to bathe in it."

Sometimes he forgot that this infuriating man knew him so well. Knew him well enough that the two of them fit front to back perfectly.

"Just bathe in it?" he asked, making random patterns on the forearm that tightened around his waist.

"Not _just_ bathe in it," the reply sounded so droll, if not for the insistent poking on his backside. He gave an experimental nudge, and smiled at the delighted gasp he elicited from the man who's worth more than all the gold tubs in the world. He wondered how many nudges he needed to do before his lover capitulated. Hopefully soon, because he could barely contain himself as it was. "Oh fine!" came the lust-laced grumble. "Melt it just before we leave for Arabia, but not one second sooner!"

 _Now,_ he thought, smiling triumphantly, turning around to straddle his lover. Now, to convince his king that they needn't go to Arabia, ever.

 

***********

 

He'd gone and fallen asleep in the tub. How embarrassing. Water's cooled by now, so it'd been a while at least. He's alone and his breathing echoed badly against the smooth walls of the bathtub.

There's no window here he could look out from, so he couldn't tell what time it was. The nearest one would be just beyond the door; he could pick himself out of the water and find out.

It's almost too cold to stay inside the water, but he's almost too tired to care. Maybe he'd drown or catch a cold or both and he'd let Alexander play nursemaid for a while.

When he was younger, he sincerely thought his friend would be more like Philip the doctor rather than Philip the king. Or would have, if not for the King and Queen's odd brand of parenting. The young Alexander knew his way around salves and tinctures like he knew his way around a battlefield map. Knew how to wield mortar and pestle like he would wield a dagger and a sword. Alexander sew wounds as thoroughly as he was in inflicting them.

Many years had passed since Alexander's medical abilities was last needed. Come to think of it, not a lot of people knew how capable the king actually was in that regard. Now that they're enjoying a relative peace, perhaps he could see this old Alexander again.

He was being selfish again, he thought as he sank back down so he was chin-deep in water. But he needed to know that the healer king still existed underneath that tempered steel of the warrior conqueror.

He lifted his hands and contemplated his wrinkly palms. One day, age would catch up on him and these wrinkles would stay. He wondered if he would ever see that day, still a long time into the future. Where would they be by then, he wondered. Here in Persia, or somewhere in Arabia, living out the sunset of his life like Bedouins. Perhaps back in Pella, with the sea behind him.

When he put his hands back down beneath the water, he saw a beloved face in front of him. He smiled, and then grinned when his smile was returned.

"You're freezing," Alexander told him, pulling him out of the tub with more force than necessary. "You'll catch a cold."

"I won't," he said, as he put his two feet firmly on the floor, letting Alexander dry him off and dress him up.

Everything was done slowly, as though they had all the time in the world when in fact they had none. His beloved king was warm, chasing the cold away. 

An infinite amount of time passed in-between touches and little stolen kisses. Then he allowed himself to be led out, and across the threshold he finally saw that it was still very light out. Floating clouds against brilliant blue skies caught his attention, made him forgot that he was being undressed and dressed up again.

"What are you thinking?" a pair of hands circled his waist, a slightly stubbled chin on the hollow of his shoulder. He leaned in a little, so their ears touched.

"How it's a nice day out but I've got so much work still to do," he said. He didn't mean to complain, but Alexander had been so indulgent all day.

"True enough." Small puffs of frustrated breath skimmed against his cheek. "Let's go."

* * *

 

Their workspaces were at the opposite ends of a very long corridor. He wondered whose idea it was to put so much distance between them. It had been a good idea at that time, he supposed. Although he doubted it really was.

He couldn't bear it now, the distance of a mere corridor. Nevertheless, he turned to leave his king's side. He'd walked the corridors enough times in the past anyway, he'd do it again.

But the hand wrapped around his wrist suddenly. It didn't loosen even when he tugged.

He tugged, Alexander tugged back. They engaged in a brief tussle at the fork of the corridor, and he was the one who capitulated first. 

Following Alexander back to the King's wing, he only vaguely listened to questions about winter storehouses and ore mountains, or maybe minters and vintners. To be honest, he couldn't hear anything, or be aware of anything. All he could see was that regal back, clad in beautiful but utilitarian robe. All he could feel was the hand around his wrist.

The two of them must've looked a sight to the people milling about the corridor. The gossipmongers would have a whale of a time at dinner tonight.

He looked down and saw fingers--warm and calloused--pressing lightly against his wrist, above his pulse. He found he didn't much care what other people think.

 

***********

 

  
The double doors to Alexander's workrooms, like any other doors leading to the King's whatever, were huge and ornate, practically exclaiming "Here Be King" with as much fanfare.

There were guards standing in front of it, guards who pushed the door open officiously just in time for the both of them to step within. They ambled past the big strategy table with its ever-present maps, and pushed past a smaller door into the King's private office.

He could immediately notice something different in the layout, though he couldn't immediately tell. He didn't make a habit of visiting these parts.

The vice-like grip around his wrist loosened, and his hand was dropped soon after. He looked around to see Alexander look at him expectantly. He was supposed to comment about something. Comment about what? Furniture? Was it new wallpaper, or was it a new mural he was supposed to comment on? A new ceiling, or stained glass doors leading to the balcony? Nothing looked oddly out of place except for...

Was that desk supposed to be this far into the middle of the room? He wondered. Did Alexander get a new desk?

Desks? 

He blinked because he thought he was seeing double. 

One looked like the King's desk, he'd recognize those carved feet anywhere. The other one looked like...

"Is that my desk?" he asked incredulously.

His desk, his inkpots, his trinkets, his paperweights. He stepped closer to the table and recognized his handwriting on the parchments there. His knee collided against the side of a chair. His chair.

He looked up and found Alexander grinning at him so widely. Gleefully like he had successfully pulled some spectacular prank. Someone's been busy while he's been sleeping in a tub.

Tearing his gaze away from that infuriatingly beloved face, he looked around and saw his wooden working trunks, his map chest, and even his footstool.

This office was bigger than the next two biggest offices in the whole palace combined, but his stuff had taken half of the available space so easily.

Then he noticed how his desk looked so at home here, so perfectly aligned where it sat across Alexander's own, with only a scant space apart, mountains of documents on both tables almost spilling into one another. How their trunk boxes leaned against one another on the floor, and looked like they fit together despite the different wood and varnishes.

Impulsively, he reached out and squared a wonky inkpot; saw how it now mirrored its twin on Alexander's desk. They had bought the pair on a whim a long time ago at a market in who knows where.

He pushed his chair back and settled himself into it, watched as Alexander did the same across of him. He grinned and laughed when it was returned.

He stretched his feet under the table. If he slouched down the chair a little, then their feet would touch.

"Now they can't go to you to complain about my decisions behind my back." His king said, looking so smug, he glowed. "And they can't come to me and badmouth you behind yours."

They just sat there, and gaze at each other for the longest time.

His eyes narrowed when he saw Alexander trying to slip a sheaf of parchment onto his side of the desk.

"You shove another paper toward me, and I'm going to put a screen between the desks," he warned and received a balled parchment in the chest as a result.

They didn't get anything done the rest of the day, but they didn't much care. They threw things back and forth, played footsie under the table, smiled until their faces hurt, and laughed until their eyes teared up.

Much later, wiping at their eyes and poking at each other's ticklish sides, they dragged their chairs to the balcony to watch another day drawing to a close.

The sun set like a fire's blaze over Alexander's sprawling empire.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "He and I", a phrase from the letter written by Queen Victoria to the King of the Belgians, on the topic of Prince Albert's place by her side. [28 March 1843](https://archive.org/stream/lettersofqueenvi01victuoft#page/472/mode/2up)
> 
> _Besides... he and I must be one, so that I can only be represented by him. I think this, therefore, a good thing for that reason also; and God knows, he deserves to be the highest in everything..._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> "Only You" by Sinead O'Connor, part of _The Young Victoria_ OST by Ilan Eshkeri ([song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5hvj7VyK1U&index=21&list=PLBBAA96F899F7C0FA), [lyrics](http://www.thankyouforhearingme.com/songs/only_you.html))
> 
> Only you know how to hear me through the silence.  
> You reach a part of me that no one else can see.  
> Forever true, there's only me, and only you,  
> Only me and you.
> 
> In your faith I trust.  
> With you beside me, I am standing strong.  
> One truth, two hearts,  
> You took my life and made it beautiful.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> "Schwanengesang" by Franz Schubert ([song](), [lyrics](http://www.gopera.com/lieder/translations/schubert_957.pdf))  
> The song sent to Victoria, by Albert, who thinks of her every time he plays this music.
> 
> When the sun is setting with its red glow,  
> lull my beloved off to sleep.
> 
> Heart! Don’t let solace abandon you!  
> Many a battle is ahead.  
> Soon I’ll rest and sleep soundly,  
> My beloved—good night!
> 
> Restless longing, yearning heart,  
> Who’ll finally quiet my urgent desire?  
> Only you can release the spring in my soul,  
> Only you.


End file.
